Read Online The Summer Book by Tove Jansson - Free Book Online Page A

equipment was in good condition. He fried his fish on the engine block, and he slept in a sealskin sleeping bag the way his grandfather had done. Earth and seaweed and fish scales and sand went with him everywhere. He had his nets and decoys and his shotgun neatly arranged in the stern, but God only knew the significance of the sacks and boxes piled in the bow. He would slap the painter on board and shove off. The prop, which was used to rough treatment, would strike the shallow bottom several cheerful blows, and Eriksson would be off. He never waved as he headed out. His boat didn’t have a name.
    Just before midsummer, Eriksson landed at the island and heaved a box up on the rock. “It’s some fireworks I picked up in an exchange,” he said. “I’ll drop by on Midsummer Eve, if that’s all right, and we’ll see how they work.” He kept the motor running while he talked, and then backed off as soon as he was through. The box was pretty damp, so they put it by the stove.
    Midsummer became even more important than usual. Grandmother blacked and polished the stove and painted the stove doors silver. They washed all the windows and even the curtains. Naturally, no one thought Eriksson would notice – he never noticed anything indoors. But they cleaned the house anyway, just because he was coming. The day before the great event, they gathered birch and rowan and lilies-of-the-valley, and the mosquitoes were awful on the big islands in towards the mainland. They shook the aphids and the ants off in the sand and went back home. They turned the house into a green bower, inside and out. Every birch stood in its own pail of water. And because it was June, almost all of the wildflowers they had picked were white.
    Grandmother wondered if they shouldn’t have invited the relatives, but no one thought it would have been a good idea, not with Eriksson there. He was the kind of man who came alone and stayed that way until he figured it was time to leave.
    In the morning, on Midsummer Eve, there was a strong wind from the north. Towards noon, it started to rain, and Papa spread a tarpaulin over the bonfire they’d laid out on the point. The tarpaulin blew into the water, as it always did, so he took out a can of petrol and put it behind a tree. It was a disgrace for a Midsummer bonfire not to burn. The day went slowly, and the wind did not let up. Papa worked at his desk. His launching platform for Eriksson’s fireworks stood out on the veranda, with its cradles pointing upwards at an angle.
    They set the table for four. There would be herring and pork and potatoes, and two kinds of vegetables. And marinated pears for dessert.
    “He doesn’t eat dessert,” said Sophia nervously. “And he doesn’t eat vegetables either. He calls it grass. You know that.”
    “Yes, I know,” Grandmother said. “But it looks nice.”
    The aquavit was in the little cellar under the floor, and they had extra milk. Eriksson never drank more than one glass of aquavit, or maybe two – just for the sake of the occasion – but he did love milk.
    “Take away the napkins,” Sophia said. “They look stupid.”
    Grandmother took away the napkins.
    The wind continued to blow piercingly all day, but it didn’t increase. There was an occasional shower. The terns screamed out on the point, and evening came.
    When I was young, in Sweden, Grandmother thought, the Midsummer weather was so different. Not a breeze, not a breath of wind. The garden was in bloom, and we had a maypole with garlands all the way up to the little banner at the top. But it was too bad that we never had any wind. We never had bonfires in Sweden. Why didn’t we ever have a fire ..? She was lying on the bed staring up at the birch greenery, and after a while she fell asleep.
    Suddenly someone shouted, and the door slammed. The room was quite dark, since no lamps can be lit on Midsummer. Grandmother sat up and realised that Eriksson must have arrived. “Hurry up!” Sophia